Eye of the Storm
by L.C. Carraway
Summary: One-shot series that gives a closer look into the Selections of Oliver Woodwork-Schreave and later, his son Nolan. Companion series to "Holding Our Own in a Great Big Storm" and "If We Ever See the Sun."
1. Chapter 1: Pizza Friends

**Author's Note:** Hello, lovelies! This is a companion to _Holding Our Own in a Great Big Storm_ , so I highly suggest reading that first for this to make any sense. This one-shot series is completely based on requests, so if you're interested in sending in a request, just PM me with: 1. A character that you'd like to see 2. A pre-existing plot point within _Holding_. This chapter should clarify things if that's at all confusing, but feel free to send me a PM if you have any questions. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, and thank you to wolfofstark for this first request! :)

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Presley fidgeted again. While the palace had no shortage of comfortable places for her to study, she couldn't focus.

She was too irritated.

Against her better judgement, she discreetly pulled the morning newspaper out from the notebook that she'd hidden it in. As she scanned it for what might've been at least the twentieth time that day, her irritation flared once more.

Oliver was a royal pain in the ass.

The worst part is, it wasn't that she didn't like him. She did. He was definitely as cute as she'd expected him to be (the heavy media coverage surrounding him hadn't left much doubt about that), and he oozed charm and charisma. Even though her first date with him had been a bit tense before they'd figured each other out a bit, she'd had a good time. She sort of thought it might be impossible not to like Oliver Woodwork-Schreave once you met him.

But that didn't mean that he wasn't an idiot. God, the boy could be so _stupid_.

Briefly, her eyes jumped to the girl in the picture with him. She was torn between equal parts irritation that his privacy had been invaded in such a way—it was obvious that the grainy picture had been taken by some slime ball on his cell phone, trying to make a buck by exploiting the prince—and anger at Oliver for even putting himself in the situation. If she was a little more insecure, she was sure that she'd be wondering why she wasn't good enough, as she'd already heard from several of the girls that morning.

Of course, there was some cock and bull story that the girl had actually been _Irina_ , which they were apparently going to announce on _The Report_ tonight, but Presley didn't buy that for a second. She was a little insulted that Oliver thought they would, until she heard some of the girls sighing in relief, and there was a rumor going around that the newspaper that had tried to shame him had issued an apology.

If nothing else, at least Oliver was lucky.

She supposed if she was being honest with herself one of the other things that really bothered her was that Oliver had asked her to hang out with him that night before he decided to go stick his tongue down some random girl's throat. " _I'm comfortable around you,_ " he'd claimed, " _I don't have to wonder or worry. Those are the kinds of people I want to be around right now._ "

 _Clearly_ , she thought derisively as she snorted at the newspaper again. She tossed it over her shoulder and tried to return to her psychology book. She had an essay due in a few days that she refused to do poorly on because Oliver was driving her nuts.

Before she could really immerse herself in the textbook, the door to the library banged open. She glanced up to see Mae standing in the doorway, already dressed for _The Report_ in a red skirt with roses on it and a black, long sleeve shirt. She looked perfect, but she held a carton of ice cream in her hands, which perplexed Presley a bit.

"Oh." She stopped short when her eyes landed on Presley. "Sorry, Presley, I didn't know you were studying here." She grabbed a handful of her skirt and turned to leave.

"Wait." Presley set her book aside and smiled at the brunette. "Are you willing to share that spoon?"

Mae smiled brightly and settled herself in the armchair next to Presley's, holding out the ice cream carton. Presley wasn't sure why she'd encouraged Mae to stay, but she was glad she had. They hadn't spent too much time together, but she liked Mae well enough. Whenever the Selected had deep conversations (not too much of a regular occurrence, if she was being honest) Mae always sounded intelligent and thoughtful. Besides, she had a fiery side that Presley had seen on more than one occasion.

Besides, the ice cream that she'd chosen was mint chocolate chip, Presley's favorite, so she couldn't be all that bad at all.

"How's the studying going?" Mae asked as Presley handed the spoon to her.

Presley cringed. "Uh… I think the problem is it hasn't really been going." She glanced at the newspaper that she'd thrown to the ground, and Mae nodded knowingly.

"Ah." She shoveled a bit of ice cream into her mouth before she asked in a rush, "So did you buy the hasty Irina cover up story?"

"No!" exclaimed Presley, glad that she wasn't the _only_ one. "Oh my god, you don't know how happy I am to hear that someone else doesn't believe it."

"Of course not," scoffed Mae. "It's infuriating. Did you hear Irina going on and on about it after lunch?"

Presley nodded solemnly. "I had to get out of the Women's Room, or else I was going to have to stab myself in the ears just so I couldn't hear her anymore."

Mae stabbed the ice cream emphatically. "Take out her voice box and spare us all," she suggested.

Presley snorted. "I like that suggestion," she decided as she accepted the ice cream that Mae offered to her again.

"So what do you want to do with your degree anyway?" Mae asked as she nodded at Presley's textbook.

The dreaded question. "I'm not positive," Presley began, the usual preface to whatever answer she gave, "but mainly my goal is to help people in some way. I think it would be awesome to work with girls who are struggling in some way, in particular. You know, things like bullying or problems with family or poverty or eating disorders." She stared down at the ice cream as she thought about the last suggestion. "You know, a few years ago, and there's no way I'd be sitting here eating this ice cream with you. Or if I did, I'd be crying and feeling like a failure afterwards."

Mae's eyebrows knit together. "What?" she frowned. "That's crazy. You're beautiful."

It was so funny to hear someone with model-esque looks like Mae call her beautiful, but when Presley inspected the other girl's face, she couldn't spy a hint of insincerity. A smile relaxed Presley's face. "Thank you. I don't really struggle with it now, but I guess being a girl is just hard sometimes," she sighed, "especially when you're growing up."

To her surprise, Mae nodded her agreement. "I get that."

"Yeah?" Presley laughed.

Mae blushed a little. "Growing up wasn't exactly easy," she explained carefully, "I lost both of my parents when I was younger, and it just sort of…" She shrugged.

"Yeah," nodded Presley. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't help, but I am. I can't imagine what it's like to lose your family."

"I got by," shrugged Mae.

"And became pretty awesome," complimented Presley, causing the dark haired girl to laugh.

They both paused when the door to the library opened once more. Isolde and Kaitlyn swept into the room, their chatter dying when they noticed the other two girls. Isolde's abrupt halt caused Kaitlyn to stumble over her feet as she stopped as well. "Hi guys!" she greeted them brightly. Of all the girls, Kaitlyn was one of the warmest and most openly friendly. "Isolde was just trying to find me this book."

"Go for it," Presley invited her, feeling more generous about sharing her sacred study space after Mae's company.

"Anything good?" Mae asked as the girls started scanning the bookshelves.

Kaitlyn pondered over the name for a minute before Isolde gave her an affectionate shake of her head and answered, " _The Alchemist._ It's one of my favorites, but Kaitlyn's never read it, so I thought it would be a good distraction given the…" She trailed off, as though she'd said too much.

"Oliver situation?" Mae supplied.

Isolde rolled her eyes and nodded. "He's ridiculous."

Presley looked amused. "You guys don't buy it either?"

Kaitlyn bit her lip for a moment before she shook her head. "Not really," she admitted, "And I think it was sort of a… well, a dick move."

There was silence for a minute before the remaining three girls burst into laughter, which caused Kaitlyn's face to ease into a smile as well. "Well, it was!" she insisted, which only made the remaining girls laugh even harder.

Somehow, the hunt for the book was abandoned, and Isolde and Kaitlyn soon were seated in two more armchairs, the ice cream being passed in a circle now. "He's just so dumb sometimes," Isolde huffed, "It actually makes me nervous that our national security is in his hands. He can be so rash and impulsive. Nothing like Trist—"

She cut herself off and grabbed the ice cream from Mae, shoving a large spoonful into her mouth. Presley studied her and saw that she looked a little panicked. "Isolde," she began slowly, "Do you… like Tristan?"

Her response was swift. "No," she countered with a shake of her head and a forced chuckle, "Of course not. How silly would that be? I just think that he's sweet and funny and clearly has more foresight than Oliver, and—"

She fell silent, and her face took on a noticeably green tinge. Presley held out the ice cream again, but she looked too stunned to take it. "Oh my god," she realized. "I… like Tristan."

Although it was a dangerous admission, one that could've gotten her into an enormous amount of trouble, the three girls surrounding her all grinned enormously and excitedly. "You guys are so cute together!" Mae exclaimed excitedly. "I always see you hanging out, but I thought you were just friends!"

"We are!" Isolde insisted, "I mean he's never… I don't think…"

Presley rolled her eyes. "Please," she countered, "He practically falls over himself to be around you whenever Oliver lets him hang out with us."

"I'm gonna call you Trisolde!" declared Kaitlyn excitedly.

But Isolde still looked nauseous. "Oh my god," she repeated. "What am I gonna do?" She jumped to her feet, the ice cream forgotten. "I have to tell Oliver! I have to leave! I can't stay here when—when I like his brother! And I can't be friends with Tristan when I feel like this!"

There was a flurry of movement as Kaitlyn and Mae grabbed her arms to stop her from rushing out the door. "Calm down," Mae urged her reassuringly.

"It'll be okay, Is," Kaitlyn beamed encouragingly. "Everything will work out."

Isolde bit her lip as she looked at the three girls. "How do you know?" she finally asked, the fear and uncertainty evident in her voice.

Presley stood and joined the girls. "Because we'll be here with you the whole way," she declared as she looked at the three girls in turn. "We're here for you."

After a long minute, Isolde's tense shoulders relaxed, and she no longer seemed to be a flight risk. "Thank you," she smiled at them.

It was a strange group of friends to be sure. They were girls that Presley wasn't sure she would have naturally gravitated towards in her regular life. Mae was beautiful, Isolde so proper and refined, and Kaitlyn so laid back and welcoming. They were an odd group, and while Presley wasn't sure how they fit together, they just did.

The door to the library opened again, and the girls all jumped apart, loudly launching into conversation about four entirely different topics in an attempt to seem casual. Margaery looked a little confused at the scene but shrugged it off. "Hey," she greeted them, "Everly sent me to find you. _The Report_ is about to start soon, so we have to go await Oliver's grand excuse—" The bitterness seeped into her voice, causing the four in the library to beam at her and Margaery to blush in embarrassment.

"Sorry," she muttered, "If you guys didn't mention that to Oliver…"

"You think he's a phony too?" Kaitlyn demanded excitedly. "Guys, we should start a club!"

The girls laughed again, and Mae dropped an arm around Margaery's shoulders, unofficially bringing her into the fold. "Come on," she declared, "Let's go watch the great pretender squirm."

They linked arms and made their way to the stage, a united front and more importantly, a group of girls who had just found something special.

* * *

Studying wasn't something that gradually became easier for Presley throughout her stay at the palace, particularly once she developed her group of friends. It was a rare occurrence that she found herself alone, as she was usually in one of their rooms or would occasionally find Mae or Kaitlyn lounging on her couch awaiting her when she returned to her room.

The night of the Harvest Festival she had thought that she might be able to find some solitude as the long but exciting day had left everyone thoroughly exhausted. This theory was quickly shot down when she walked into her room to find Mae already lounging on her bed while Isolde sat at her desk scribbling a letter.

"You guys do know that you have rooms of your own right?" Presley demanded teasingly as she walked into the room and kicked her shoes off. She had no idea where her maids were but figured one of her friends had already dismissed them for the night. They listened to the other girls almost as well as they did Presley.

They both ignored her. "Where are Kaitlyn and Margaery?" Presley asked as she glanced around. She wouldn't have been surprised if they were in her closet or bathroom.

"Kaitlyn is feeding Pawnds, and Margaery was on the phone with her brother," Isolde explained. Somehow, Isolde usually knew what the girls were up to. Presley wasn't sure how, but she didn't question it. It came in handy to have the all-seeing Isolde as one of her friends.

Presley nodded and eased out of her sweater. "So," she began, trying to sound casual, "I noticed you avoiding Tristan today, Is."

Isolde's cheeks burned red, and she kept her eyes focused on the paper before her. "I don't know what you mean," she answered coolly, utilizing the tone that usually caused the girls to abandon any badgering.

Mae and Presley exchanged an eye roll, but they didn't have the chance to say much more, for the door to Presley's room banged open to reveal a harried Kaitlyn. One arm excitedly dragged Margaery along and the other clasped Pawnds to her chest. "Guys!"

They all rose from their spots and approached Kaitlyn. "What's going on?" Mae asked, her face a mixture of concern and amusement. She took Pawnds from Kaitlyn and held him more delicately, which the cat seemed to appreciate.

"Look what I found!" Kaitlyn excitedly ordered. She dropped to the floor in front of Presley's coffee table and delicately composed a small circle with six small, colorful triangles. When Presley examined them more closely, she saw that each triangle had a letter carved into the top: P, K, M, I, M, P.

"What are these?" Isolde asked. Her brow furrowed as she picked up the I—which was a light blue, almost the same color as Isolde's icy eyes—and inspected it.

Kaitlyn was practically bouncing with excitement. "I found them at the Harvest Festival," she explained, "There's one for each of us."

"I see that, Kait," snorted Mae, "But uh, _what_ exactly are they?"

"It's a pizza of friendship!" Kaitlyn declared. "They're like friendship necklaces except pizza slices."

There was a long silence. "A pizza of friendship," Presley repeated slowly.

Mae was the first to crack a smile. "I love it." And then, slowly, they all realized that they agreed and happily picked up their triangles. "Where did you find them?"

Kaitlyn excitedly slipped her own triangle onto a necklace and fastened it around her neck. Presley followed suit. "They were at a display at the Harvest Festival," she elaborated, "There was a box, and I just dug through it until I found all of our letters!"

Margaery frowned at the single piece that remained on the table once all of the girls had accepted their charms. "Did you grab two P's for Pres?" she chuckled.

"No," countered Kaitlyn, as though it should be obvious who the other P was for. She dropped to the ground again and coaxed Pawnds out from beneath Presley's couch.

As soon as she realized Kaitlyn's intention, all Presley could do was laugh, "No."

They watched Kaitlyn secure the second P to Pawnd's collar in silence. "We share a friendship charm with a cat," Isolde declared as they all stared at Kaitlyn and Pawnds.

Finally, Mae laughed and tossed her arms around Kaitlyn's skinny shoulders. "I don't know what I'd do without you weirdos."

Slowly, Presley's face slid into a smile. "Me neither," she admitted. And she hoped she would never have to find out.


	2. Chapter 2: Tristan Causes Problems

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! I'm currently in the midst of a midterms overload and am basically dying, so it'll be a second before there's a new chapter of _Holding_ , so I thought I could at least give you some Trisolde to tide you over! Basically everyone who's requested a oneshot has had some variation of a Tristan/Isolde request, so this is for everyone lol. I'll probably write one more Trisolde oneshot from Tristan's POV, and I'll be working on other Selected's POVs here as soon as school lets me return to life. Send me requests if you can think of any! :)

* * *

The sealed letter looked inoffensive enough, but Isolde stared at it like it was a radioactive bomb, ready to explode at any second. The thick, cream stationary tinged with an attractive gold undertone was elegant, and the handwriting that spelled out her name on the front showed careful, neat penmanship.

The problem was who the handwriting belonged to.

"Is everything alright, milady?"

Isolde jumped at the sound of her head maid's voice. She stood and scooped the letter up lest Melanie identify the owner of the script on the front. Her palm crumpled the unread letter while simultaneously hiding it behind her back. _Bravo, Isolde_ , she scolded herself, _If Melanie wasn't suspicious before, she certainly is now._

"Yes." She forced a smile. "Everything's perfect. Why wouldn't it be?"

Melanie fixed her charge with a long look. "Alright…" she finally relented, "Do you want to get ready for the Prince's movie night?"

The letter practically burned her hand. "In a minute," Isolde decided, "I'm just going to get some air." Before Melanie could protest, she hurried to her balcony and pulled the French doors closed behind her. She anxiously glanced over her shoulder for a moment before she decided it was safe to open the letter.

 _Is_ (why was it that she hated nicknames except for when he used them?)— _Meet me after the movie. Usual spot. – T.W._

Her fingers furiously tore at the parchment until she had enough pieces to make her own dangerous, treasonous confetti. Her heart hammered against her ribcage for a long moment, and the familiar flutter that the prospect of spending any amount of time, no matter how miniscule, with Tristan always caused erupted in her stomach.

T.W. She'd scolded him the first time he'd signed his letter in such a way. "You idiot," she had hissed, and he'd smiled in that way that made him seem so happy and carefree, rather similar to Oliver if she was being honest, though she thought that Tristan managed it in a way that was so less infuriating.

"Oh, please," he had laughed in response, "No one's going to know what it means."

Isolde had placed her hands on her hips, her skepticism written plainly on her face. "How many T.W.s do you think are running around the castle?" she'd demanded.

The laughter didn't fade, and he simply shrugged. "I doubt anyone would put two and two together. If people ever call me more than Prince Tristan, they use my full title: His Royal Highness Prince Tristan Carter Leopold Woodwork-Schreave."

And although there were more important things for them to discuss, Isolde's face had softened. "Leopold?" she smirked.

He had rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he shrugged, "You realize there are few things Oliver and Elijah haven't tormented me for already, right?"

"It's cute," she had decided, the teasing glint still in her eye.

"Yeah? What's your middle name then?"

And it had been Isolde's turn to blush. "Isolde Noelle Havens."

But to her surprise, his face had simply softened as he reached out to take her hand. "Go figure," he had smiled, "Even your middle name would be beautiful."

She blushed even now at the memory. She'd never kissed Tristan, and they tried to keep their contact to a minimum, but they had an intimacy that she had realized she would never be able to form with Oliver. She'd tried her best—which was really saying something, as Isolde Havens refused to do anything half-heartedly—but she and Oliver just didn't have that spark.

There was a knock on the balcony doors that pulled Isolde from her thoughts. "Really, Lady Isolde, you ought to get ready if you don't want to be late…"

"Yes, of course." She stood and made her way to the vanity in her bedroom, casually emptying the handful of paper shreds into the blazing fire on her way. She was already dressed for dinner, so getting ready was simply a matter of deconstruction that Isolde absentmindedly sat through, her mind a muddled mess of thoughts that had little to do with a movie night with Oliver.

Once all of the pins had been removed from her hair and the makeup washed from her face, Isolde glanced at the stack of clothes that her maids had pulled out for her. "I like this one," declared the saucier of her maids, a short blonde with curly hair and a wide smile named Anette.

Isolde scanned one eye over the silk nightgown and corresponding robe. "Perhaps send that over to Irina," countered Isolde with a roll of her eyes, "Oliver said comfortable, so I plan to abide by that."

She tossed a few similar outfits out of the pile and considered a pair of blue gingham shorts with a matching long sleeve button up nightshirt. She heaved a sigh as she tossed them back onto the bed. The last outfit seemed reasonable enough, certainly something that Isolde would wear for pajamas on a typical night, but her forthcoming meeting with Tristan weighed heavily on her mind. She couldn't face him in _pajamas._

A knock on her door captured the attention of her maids, and they hurried away to attend the visitor as Isolde considered the potential outfits. It proved unnecessary, as the door swung open before they reached it to reveal Mae, who was already dressed in a pale gray nightshirt and an oversized maroon cardigan. Her glossy, dark brown hair was knotted into a braid that hung over her shoulder, and a pair of fuzzy gray slippers accented her feet. The bright green eyes looked confused when she saw that Isolde wasn't yet dressed.

"Oh," frowned Isolde, "I suppose I'm running late." She glanced at the clock, which confirmed her suspicion.

Mae glanced at the maids and smiled warmly. "I'll make sure Isolde is dressed and present," she offered, "Why don't you ladies enjoy the rest of your evening?" They all glanced to Isolde, their de facto leader, who inclined her head ever so slightly in agreement with Mae. The maids promptly curtsied and left, the door shut tightly behind them.

"What's the matter?" Mae asked, her eyebrows furrowed in concern as she crossed the room to her friend's side and put a comforting hand on the taller blonde's arm.

Isolde realized that she was chewing her bottom lip. With a roll of her eyes at her own ridiculousness, she silently ordered herself to stop before she produced blood. "I don't know what to wear," she complained to Mae as she crossed her arms over her chest and huffed in frustration.

Mae laughed as she picked up silk nightie and robe that Anette had suggested. "Wow," she commented sarcastically, "This is _certainly_ an Isolde outfit."

"Oh, stop," sighed Isolde. She knocked the getup from her friend's hands and crossed the room to her dresser. She pulled out a pair of comfortable black sweatpants and a soft gray sweatshirt. It was something she'd requested the day after her horseback ride with Oliver—admittedly, she'd been a little out of practice, which her body had reminded her of the next day—and had worn at any opportunity since then. She regarded herself as one of the more put together girls in the Selection, but her comfort was her Achilles heel, especially within the confines of her own room.

"Close your eyes," she ordered Mae, although she knew the brunette wouldn't pay her much mind. She would've gone into the bathroom to change, but she knew Mae would follow her anyway so there wasn't much point.

"So now that we've settled that," Mae noted, although she hadn't actually done anything to solve Isolde's clothing dilemma, "what's really bothering you?"

Isolde focused on tying her tennis shoes. "I don't know what you're—"

Mae snatched her other sneaker before she could finish. "Liar."

Isolde sighed and dropped her head into her hands. Her wavy blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders and created a barrier between her and Mae for a moment. "It's… you know who." The guilt in her voice was obvious.

A frown tugged at Mae's face, although she tried to repress it and put on an encouraging smile. "And how is dear Prince Tristan today?"

Isolde's usually squared, strong shoulders collapsed weakly as she slouched back on the couch. "Ruining my life."

If Mae wanted to smile, she held it in well. "Oh, stop. Have I ever told you that you're probably as dramatic as Oliver? Really, if you weren't in love with his brother, you'd be perfect."

"Strangely, that doesn't help," quipped Isolde.

Despite the complications that she'd encountered in the Selection so far, Isolde was grateful for the friendships that she'd made. When Mae gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and softly offered, "Why don't you just talk to Oliver?", Isolde found herself almost convinced to do so. The vibrant green eyes held a hopeful smile, and Isolde realized that Mae genuinely believed—whether it was in the power of what Tristan and Isolde had or Oliver's benevolence or just some conviction that things that were meant to be just worked out—that talking to Oliver would be enough.

Isolde smiled tightly. "I don't know."

There was a moment of silence between the two girls. Mae, however hopeful and encouraging, was not imperceptive and realized that Isolde hadn't been sold on her suggestion. "Well, what if you just talked to the others?" she tried, "You know Presley and Kaitlyn are here for you too."

The tennis shoe was stolen back by the blonde who snorted as she crouched to situate it. "No," she insisted, "Talking isn't going to fix anything. I-I just need to end things with Tristan. You know I do, Mae."

It was obvious that Mae highly disagreed, but thankfully for Isolde, she didn't drag out the argument. "Come on," she declared as she grabbed a soft throw blanket off of Isolde's couch, "We better get to the theater before there's only sucky seats left, and we get stuck with Irina or Xylie."

"Oh, be nice," laughed Isolde. But she dutifully looped her arm through Mae's, and the pair made their descent to the lower level of the castle where the theater was located.

The movie that the group decided on—much to Isolde's chagrin—was a romantic drama called _America_. Isolde had seen it before at her mother's insistence and wasn't sure whether she hated it more based on content or association, but it certainly wasn't the movie she would've preferred. Oliver wasn't sitting with them—he was a few rows behind—but she felt overly aware of his presence, as though he _knew_ that she was itching for the night to be over so that she could race off to the gardens.

When the horrible movie finally ended, she thought that she was free to make her escape. She knew that Mae would cover for her if someone noticed that she wasn't returning to the Selected's floor, but then everyone decided to watch another movie—this time a comedy at Oliver's request as it seemed that he hadn't been overly fond of _America_ either—and there was no way she could just slip away in front of everyone.

Instead of focusing on the movie at all, Isolde sat rigidly between Presley and Mae. A few times Presley's dark eyebrows cut into a frown, but she didn't question her friend's discomfort further than that. Isolde's eyes darted around the theater, and she noticed that a few of the girls started to drift off to sleep towards the middle of the movie. Even Kaitlyn and Mae's heads were drooping on each other's shoulders, and when she noticed that Oliver had dozed off, she muttered a quick excuse to Presley and slipped from the room.

She walked through the hall calmly, her posture impeccable as usual and her neutral face concealing the storm of emotions that were swirling inside her chest. A few of the guards nodded at her, but no one stopped to question her path, even when she slipped from the palace into the dark night.

The gardens were without a doubt her favorite location at the palace. They were particularly beautiful at night when the velvety darkness softened everything, the only illumination coming from the stars, the windows of the palace, or the fairy lights that were hidden throughout the bushes and trees.

She remembered her first conversation with Oliver, where he had gotten drunk, insulted her, and climbed into his favorite fountain. At the time, she had been completely outraged by his behavior and ready to return home. She hadn't given up her position in the Governor's office for _that_. She had a future, she'd told herself.

But Oliver's behavior had never been the largest motivation for her nagging desire to go home. As she approached the lone, tall figure that awaited her underneath their favorite magnolia tree, an uncontrollable smile lit up her face. The tall, lanky figure of Tristan Woodwork-Schreave lounged in the grass beneath the tree, his dirty blonde head propped up on his arms.

"Hi," Isolde whispered as she lowered herself onto the blanket that Tristan had brought. She laid down beside him, and when she turned her head to face him, her breath caught in her throat.

She really loved him. She'd known it from the very beginning, and she was reminded of it every time she saw him.

Tristan took her hand. "Hi," he whispered back.

"Sorry it took so long," she mumbled.

They tried to ignore the fact that she was technically his brother's girlfriend. "That's okay," Tristan offered with a supportive smile, "I'm just glad I got to see you." His thumb gently rubbed the back of her hand. "I mean, I probably would've waited out here all night if I had to." He laughed, but there wasn't a joking hint in his voice.

Although they looked similar, Tristan and Oliver were very different. Physically, Tristan was taller, less muscular, his face more angular. He didn't joke in the same easy way as Oliver; although he was regarded as the 'serious' Woodwork-Schreave offspring, he had a dry, unique sense of humor that Isolde liked.

One of the most striking similarities between the brothers was how sweet they were though. Isolde wanted nothing more than for Tristan to take her into his arms at that moment, and she knew that Tristan would eagerly comply if she asked. But it was one of the boundaries that she had set for them. They could explain being out of the castle at night together, given the skill that they both had with words. They couldn't explain being caught in a suspicious embrace. Only two generations before, such an instance had caused Tristan's paternal grandparents to be caned and stripped of their castes in front of the entire country.

"Do you believe in fate?" Tristan wondered.

Isolde smiled. Before the Selection, she certainly hadn't. "Yes."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

She shifted a little closer to him, turning onto her side to face him. "Do you think I'm some pessimistic misanthrope?" she teased.

"I would've said realistic misanthrope, but—"

Isolde lightly smacked his arm. "No teasing or I won't tell you why."

"I can't have that," decided Tristan as he turned to face her as well. "Alright. No jokes. Tell me what made the Isolde Noelle Havens believe in fate."

Her heart pounded violently in her chest, and she had to swallow a couple of times before she managed to choke it out: "You."

Tristan looked surprised. "What?"

She tightened her grip on his hand and stared at their interlocked fingers instead of his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the legend of Iseult?" Tristan admitted that he hadn't. "Well, it's considered a bit of a precursor to _Romeo and Juliet_ , all those sorts of star-crossed lover stories."

"Okay…" Tristan sounded confused, as though he wasn't sure how the story related to fate.

"Well," continued Isolde, "Iseult is usually modernized to Isolde in new translations of the story. And Isolde is a princess that is supposed to marry a man named King Mark in order to bring peace between their kingdoms. So, King Mark sends his nephew to bring Isolde to him." Finally, her icy blue eyes gently fluttered up to meet his hazel ones. "Mark's nephew is named Tristan."

There was silence as Tristan absorbed the story. Finally, a small smile ebbed at his face. He reached out with his free hand and gently touched her cheek. "So, what happens to Tristan and Isolde?"

"That depends on what version you read," admitted Isolde. "Sometimes, they fall in love on the journey. Others, they're affected by a love potion. But in the end, they don't usually end up together. Tristan marries another princess, coincidentally also named Isolde, and in the best versions for our heroine, Mark forgives her transgression." She paused and laughed. "Well, aside from this really terrible movie version from the United States era with this strange actor named James Franco... In that version, Tristan dies after Mark decides to let them be together."

Despite the dour endings, Tristan didn't look discouraged. "So this makes you believe in fate how…?"

She gave a small shrug. "Maybe we're just like the first Tristan and Isolde." She glanced around and added, "They used to meet in a garden too."

"I still don't get it," admitted Tristan. He looked a little frustrated.

Isolde shrugged weakly. "Maybe we fall in love with people we can't have." She tried to smile, but instead, her nose tingled as tears erupted in her eyes, and she looked away from him. "Maybe that's fate."

Tristan's face was hard as he took her other hand as well, his grip tight as though he thought he could force the sadness from her. "Stop it."

She needed to pull away from him. They were too close and had been for too long. They were tempting their luck as it was.

But she couldn't. She met Tristan's hazel eyes. They were so different than Oliver's. Where Oliver's eyes sparkled with bright golds, Tristan's were tamed with softer browns that melded with the green instead of interrupting it. Isolde had quickly realized that if she'd had any misconceptions about Oliver, she had more about Tristan.

Yes, he was more innocent than his brother, and certainly he was more conscious of the duties expected of their family. But he was more idealistic as well. He had the idea that if one wanted something badly enough, you could have it. You could work for it or will it into existence.

But they couldn't. "Tristan," she whispered. "I think we should stop seeing each other like this."

She waited for the flash of pain to mar his handsome face, but to her surprise, he smiled. "No, you don't," he countered.

He saw through her futile efforts. Of course he did.

"I don't want you to get hurt because of me," she countered. And that was the truth. More than anything, she wanted to protect him—from tangible things like the treason charges that their relationship could rain upon them but even from the pain that their separation would inflict. She wished she would've thought of all of this before.

"I won't," he countered again, simply, as if anything about their situation was simple.

It frustrated her. She supposed it was a side effect of being raised a prince, but he never saw how truly complicated some things could be. "Look," he continued, "If we just talk to Oliver and ask him if you could leave, then there's nothing that stops us from being together, Is. It's really that easy."

She wanted to scream. "No, it isn't." She tore her hands from him and rose to her feet, putting much needed distance between them. "Even if Oliver did just let me go home—which isn't likely, as I _told_ you I've tried—there's your mother. She has to approve your marriage, and she's already trying to distance you from the monarchy. Do you really think she'd just say okay and let you marry someone people have already started thinking of as a possibility for their next queen?"

He couldn't argue with her, and he didn't try. "So we'll leave," he declared. "We can go anywhere—Brazilia, Patagonia, Andolia. We could travel and just be together. I could… work. Something. I'll do anything, just as long as we're together, Is."

She'd started shaking her head before he could even finish. "Stop it," he frowned, his own frustration building.

She stepped away again, taking a seat on the edge of a nearby fountain. Tristan joined her a moment later, lowering himself to his knees beside her. "Don't you want to be with me?" he asked.

"Of course I do," Isolde admitted, tears brimming in her eyes.

Tristan bit his lip for a moment before he continued, "Do you love me?"

A sob escaped her mouth. She knew how she felt, but it would do no good for either of them for Tristan to know too. Maybe it was better to let him think she didn't reciprocate his feelings. "I just…" She sighed deeply. "I don't think it's supposed to be this hard."

Tristan took her hands, and he looked a little panicked although he tried to keep his voice calm. "Hey, don't give up yet. Oliver… he's really understanding. Maybe if you just talked to him—"

"Tristan." She tried to keep her voice strong but had a feeling that she was failing miserably. She pulled her hands away and stood. "Maybe some people are meant to fall in love but not be together."

If it was true, she hated it.

"Don't give up," Tristan replied, his voice both determined and wistful. She could see the pain in his eyes—the pain that _she_ was causing him, and she hated herself for it.

"I'm sorry." Emotion built in her throat, and she covered her mouth to physically hold it in. She couldn't have said anything else even if she had wanted to, so she turned from the garden.

She barely held the tears back until she was in her room. As soon as the door slammed shut, a strangled sob escaped her throat, and she gave in to the desolation that filled her.

Her maids looked shocked and tried to help her, though she turned them away. "I'm fine!" she insisted through the tears, but it wasn't convincing as she gasped for breath through the sobs.

A knock on the door sounded a short moment later, and Anette moved to answer it while Melanie and Halley continued trying to comfort their charge. When she spoke, Isolde froze. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but Lady Isolde is—" She glanced over her shoulder, as though she was unsure of what to say.

"Please, can you tell her it's important?" Oliver requested insistently. Anette looked helplessly at Isolde, who rolled her eyes but pushed the tears from her cheeks and squared her shoulders before she opened the door more widely.

"Oliver." She struggled to keep her face neutral at his appearance. However, the shock at his presence in her doorway was nothing compared to the shock that paralyzed her when he lunged forward and pressed his mouth to hers.

"I heard you and Tristan in the gardens," he explained hurriedly, "and just… please don't go, Isolde. I know that I have a lot of figuring out to do about my feelings, but I'm trying. I'm doing an elimination this week, and I can't tell you that I feel as strongly as you do, but I _do_ care about you. A lot."

Her mouth fell open in shock in response to their kiss. She only spoke a few minutes later, once the impact of Oliver's words hit her. "You… heard me and…"

Oliver nodded, feeling a little embarrassed about his spying now. "I know you guys are close friends, and I didn't mean to invade a personal conversation or anything, but I'm glad that I did," he admitted, "I need you here, Isolde. I need you to see this through with me to the end."

Fresh tears surged to her eyes, and she countered, "Oliver, this is really hard for me."

"I know," he admitted, "And if Tristan or Everly or I can help you in any way, honestly, Is, just let us know, but I don't think going home is going to solve anything."

The irony that he offered Tristan as a solution to her struggles was not lost on Isolde. Eventually, she sighed, "You're right. It won't solve things for any of us."

"Does that mean you'll stay?" She nodded, and he took a step towards her, like he wanted to kiss her again, but she put a hand up to stop him.

"I'm not really feeling well," she countered. It had been true before his arrival, never mind that she now felt guilty for kissing Oliver and even more convinced that they weren't the ones for each other. "It's just been a hard night, and I'm kind of tired."

"Oh, yeah, I understand," Oliver nodded. "Why don't you have breakfast in your room tomorrow, relax a little? I'll send Tristan or Celine to check on you."

She smiled thinly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Oliver," she choked out before she disappeared behind the door.

She didn't sleep well that night, and she was already awake when Tristan knocked on her door. She dismissed her maids after they'd shown him in, and if they found it odd, they didn't mention it. Tristan remained rigidly near the door, like he was unsure where they stood with each other after the previous night. Isolde wondered if Oliver had told him about the kiss.

The silence in the room was deafening. Isolde was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was still only dressed in her nightgown and robe, of the hard sadness in Tristan's eyes, of the distance between them. After a few more beats, Tristan spoke, his voice resentful. "Oliver told me to check on you."

Unsure of what else to say, she shrugged weakly. "I'm fine."

Tristan nodded curtly and turned towards the door. Isolde's resolve crumbled, and she called, "Tristan, wait."

He looked frustrated when he turned to face her again. "What?" he demanded. "Wait for what, Isolde? Please tell me exactly what I'm waiting for, because I'm not sure anymore. I gave you two perfectly attainable ways for us to be together last night, and you shot them both down. So excuse me if I'm a little tired of waiting."

Her nose stung in anticipation of the tears that blurred her vision. "Tristan… I could never let you throw away everything—your family, your position, everything you've ever known—for me. Because…" She took a steadying breath. "I love you."

When he raised his gaze to look at her, he looked stunned. After a moment, he took a tentative step towards her. "Say that again," he requested.

She laughed, and a few tears snuck out of the corners of her eyes. "I love you," she repeated. "Is this really news to you?"

Tristan grinned. "I had a feeling, I guess." He closed the distance between them and put his arms around her. Being this close to him always made Isolde's breath catch in her throat. She wrapped one arm around his neck as the other caressed his cheek. "One more time?" Tristan requested.

She laughed but obliged: "I love you."

She'd never seen a wider, more elated smile on his face. His grip around her tightened, and her stomach burst into a flurry of butterflies as she realized what was about to happen.

One of the first things she'd ever noticed about Tristan was how tall he was in person. It wasn't something that the casual observer noted much in pictures of the royal family or on _The Report_ , but she'd realized it the first time she'd seen him in the Women's Room during their makeovers.

Now, she realized as their bodies pressed more closely together than ever before, she concluded that they were the perfect fit for each other. As if they were puzzle pieces sliding into place, their lanky frames fit together effortlessly, no gaping or uncomfortable prodding.

Tristan slid a hand up her back to tangle in her messy morning hair. She held her breath as his other hand slowly traveled the length of her side, the skin protected only by the delicate silk of her nightgown. Although it was the last thing she wanted to think about, she whispered, "Tristan, if someone sees…"

"Is?" he requested, his voice low and husky. Their faces were so temptingly close together.

"Yeah?" she whispered back.

"Stop talking." It was an order that she would've protested against had his lips not silenced her a moment later.

It was a kiss that she'd waited an eternity for, and it was worth the wait in every way imaginable. Any worry about who might see or the consequences fell away. The entire world fell away. It was like they were the only two people left on the earth, their only obligations to each other.

He invaded her senses. Everywhere he touched her burned with heat, and as she kissed him, the warmth spread to the furthest inches of her extremities. He smelled like a mixture of soap and an intoxicating cologne that she'd somehow only just noticed. His mouth was hot, a little frenzied, with a minty taste. The sound of his racing heartbeat—or maybe it was hers, or even both of theirs—echoed in her ears.

Only when their lungs demanded respite did they part. Tristan kept her close, his forehead rested against hers and his gently gliding up and down her back. "By the way," he smiled, "I love you too."

Once she heard it, she couldn't imagine how she'd spent her entire life to that point not being loved by Tristan. It seemed impossible to imagine a future where they didn't just spend their days loving each other. "What are we going to do?" Isolde sighed.

Tristan's arms tightened around her. "We'll figure it out," he promised.

It wasn't the most reassuring response, but Isolde realized that this was the man that she loved—that she was in love with. And as nonsensical as it might be, those were reasons enough for her to believe him. "Okay," she agreed.


	3. Chapter 3: Beauty and the Beast

**Author's Note** : Hello, everyone! It's been a while since there's been a oneshot, but I promise I'm still working on them. This one has been requested by a few people, notably **wolfofstark** , so I hope you all enjoy. It also gives a little insight to some things that might arise in _Holding_ so yeah, enjoy :D

* * *

Although it wasn't something she would share with her Russian companions, the first opinion Lady Sara Kosma had of Illéa was that it was beautiful. Despite having spent most of her adolescence and adulthood in Russia, the native Saharan had never adjusted to the long, bitterly cold winters that besieged her adopted country every year.

Angeles was different. While it was nowhere near as warm as Sahara, October brought a much milder climate in the Illéan capital than in Russia. From the time their plane had landed, the skies had been clear, blue, and sunny, complimented by the pleasantly warm temperature and an easy breeze. She had been perplexed when Nikolai had initially explained that the reason for their visit was a harvest, but it made sense when she discovered how pleasant autumn was in the country.

She was determined to enjoy the trip, if for nothing other than the splendid weather, despite how much she detested official visits. Diplomatic excursions meant that their travel party was large, filled with other nobles, diplomats, advisers, and in recent months, Nikolai's new wife. While Sara held no ill will towards the beautiful and accomplished (albeit manipulative) Duchess Regan, the same could not be said for Regan's treatment of her husband's mistress.

Sara had known not to expect too much from the trip from the moment that they'd boarded their flight. From where she sat beside Nikolai, Regan hadn't even had to look up from the magazine that she'd been lazily flipping through to direct her ire at Sara. " _She's_ coming?" she'd demanded icily of her husband.

As usual, Nikolai didn't seem bothered by Regan's displeasure. "Lady Kosma is a noblewoman," he'd countered simply.

"And a whore," Regan had sneered. Her ladies-in-waiting—a countess and a cousin of the present Tsarina who had never been kind to Sara—had derisively chortled their agreement. Nikolai had scolded his wife but done little aside from that, instead inviting Sara to a game of chess as though nothing had happened.

Although she planned to escape Regan at the earliest opportunity, she'd been unable to deny her curiosity about the royal family and had joined their party in greeting the monarch. She'd heard Nikolai revile the Schreaves for years, and although she'd remained hidden towards the back of their party, she took in the scene attentively, her gaze focused on the queen and her heir.

The flight from Russia to the Illéan capitol hadn't been too long, and it was strange to think that just across the ocean rested this land that Nikolai detested so much. Whenever he spoke of it, it had always seemed like a far away, fairytale land to Sara.

But she was here, and it was very real. And she felt a little conflicted about it.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen Prince Oliver—it seemed that he was always in the news, and she'd once seen a smashed photo of him that Nikolai had discovered in a drawer in Regan's bedroom—but she couldn't deny that his presence was unsettling. In person, he was taller, held himself more strongly, and seemed more capable.

She'd sensed the immediate tension between Nikolai and Oliver. It wasn't shocking. While Nikolai had never directly told her why he disliked the Illéan prince so much, she had a feeling that it was related to their status. Regardless of who the Illéan people wanted to rule, Oliver was the firstborn son, irrefutably the heir, something that Nikolai could never be.

The history between Regan and Oliver must've been a complicating factor as well. Sara knew that Nikolai didn't love his wife—she was truly unsure of why he'd agreed to the marriage when Marid Illéa had suggested it—but the idea of Oliver possessing something that Nikolai once more never could have was enough to drive the Russian royal mad.

The younger prince—who was very attractive and seemed to be a more sedate version of his older brother—showed the visitors to their rooms, and she was pleased to see that her quarters at the Illéan palace befit her station, regardless of her reputation. The first thing that Sara requested of her maid was that curtains that shielded the long, floor-to-ceiling windows be opened so that she could enjoy the view of the grounds from her room. She'd had a lovely view in Russia prior to Regan's arrival but, per the new Grand Duchess's instruction, had since been relegated to a corner room that overlooked the courtyard where prisoners were disposed of. Her window dressings had remained firmly closed since then.

She'd been casually unloading her wardrobe for the trip when the doors to her room banged open, causing Sara to jump. Her maid also appeared startled, her own surprise causing her to drop the box of jewels that she'd been unpacking. Nikolai's eyes blazed. "Idiot girl," he snapped at the maid, "Do you have any idea how much those are worth?"

The girl quivered under Nikolai's glare. "I'm so sorry, Grand Duke," she stammered as she dropped to her knees and began collecting the jewels. Her trembling hands tried to grab the jewels as quickly as possible, and in her haste, she sent a diamond earring scuttling even further away from the spill.

Nikolai's temper had always been the largest issue between the two of them. Sara had noticed that it had worsened over time, though she wasn't sure what the stimulus was. Even after years of explosions, she was always taken aback when he lashed out, and she stood rooted to the spot in shock as he swept towards the maid and wrenched the jewelry box from her hands.

"These are worth more than your miserable life will ever be," Nikolai snarled angrily as he shook a handful of diamonds at the maid, who looked on the verge of tears.

The young woman's fright roused Sara to action, and she swept towards the pair, putting a reassuring hand on Nikolai's arm. She could feel the tension beneath her hand, and she quickly interjected, "Darling, it's fine. No damage has been done. I overstuffed that box, it's a wonder the poor girl could even lift it."

Before Nikolai could revile the girl any more, Sara turned a beaming smile to the terrified maid. "You'll have to excuse the grand duke, Lorelai, it's been a long flight. Why don't you give us some time and come back before dinner to help me dress?" she suggested.

Lorelai didn't need any more prompting. She dipped into a curtsy before she set the box on a table and rushed from the room.

Sara scooped the jewels from the floor and returned them to their proper place, leaving Nikolai to settle his temper. "These lazy Illéan servants," he grumbled, sounding somewhat sheepish as he knew how Sara hated his outbursts of anger.

"She's a lovely girl," Sara countered dismissively. "She's been very kind and helpful to me."

Nikolai decided to ignore her counterargument. Instead, he approached her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder as she untangled the pile of priceless necklaces. As Nikolai's favorite person at court and a recipient of the current tsar's kindness, more than a few of the Russian crown jewels had made their way into her collection.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he sighed. "You know how much I hate being here."

Sara put a hand over Nikolai's and relaxed against him. "You could try to enjoy it," she suggested hopefully.

Nikolai scoffed and pulled away, causing Sara's hopefulness to evaporate. "What is there to possibly enjoy?" he demanded as he threw himself onto her couch. "How is that an idiotic child like Oliver Woodwork gets bequeathed almost an entire continent while I'm left to my brother's discretion when he's tsar?"

She rolled her eyes and continued to focus on untangling the jewelry. "Stop it," she ordered, "You know that Vitaly will be good to you when he's tsar."

"I don't want _good_ ," complained Nikolai.

Sara sighed deeply. "What is it you that you want, my love?" she asked almost disinterestedly.

From the couch, Nikolai smirked. "You know better than anyone, Sara," he pointed out. And it was true. She did know him better than anyone. She knew his secrets, his ambitions, his irritations.

Her eyes settled on an ornate diamond choker. It was her most recent and certainly most elaborate gift from Nikolai, entering her life only a few days before Regan. Her throat felt thick as she studied the necklace. _I once wanted things, too,_ she thought as tears burned in her eyes.

She dropped the necklace and made her way to the couch. "What if the things you want aren't good for you anymore?" she asked. "It's alright to want different things."

Nikolai studied her for a moment, and though he wasn't the most perceptive of people, his forehead creased in concern. "Don't say that," he ordered as he reached out and pulled her into his arms. "Not when we've worked so hard."

They had worked hard, there was no doubt about that. She'd been amazed when Nikolai had somehow managed to promote her to the rank of a countess. She smiled despite her misgivings. "Do you remember when we first met?" she asked, her eyes glazed with nostalgia. Their connection had always been electric, even from the first encounter.

Nikolai smirked as he pulled her into his arms. "Of course," he confirmed, "In fact, I remember the first time I ever saw you. How do you think you were promoted so quickly from a kitchen maid to a grand duke's private quarters?"

"My immense skill and work ethic, I'd hoped," quipped Sara.

Nikolai laughed. "Please, my love. You were the clumsiest maid I'd ever had," he countered lightly. He took her hands and deposited a kiss on each. "You weren't made to scrub and fold and iron."

She chuckled briefly as she thought of the many things she'd ruined with an iron during her short tenure in Nikolai's service. "Especially not iron," she agreed. But the amusement in her face quickly faded as Nikolai's lips continued to lightly graze their way up her arm, and she shivered in pleasure.

She could feel his smirk against her neck. "What were you saying before?" he asked in a low, languid voice. "Something about…" he paused as he eased the sleeve of her dress off her shoulder, "…wanting different things…?"

He was infuriating sometimes. He was brash, reckless, irritable. But she loved him. She loved his passion for Russia, she loved his determination, she loved who he was with her when there were no judging eyes on them. She loved him with a fire that she couldn't extinguish for all his shortcomings.

It's why she hadn't been able to leave on that terrible day when he'd told her about Regan and begged her to stay. It was why she wouldn't leave despite her disappointment with how far they'd strayed from the vision of their lives that Nikolai had first painted when they'd gotten together.

"Oh, shut up," huffed Sara before she pulled his lips to hers. They'd been together for so long, fit together so well, that Nikolai wasn't even taken aback by her sudden assumption of control. He crushed her firmly against him as their lips danced in synchrony, and Sara forgot any of her earlier displeasure as wrapped her arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer.

The bliss was quickly curtailed though when her door banged open again. Sara sighed as she wondered if there was a lock she could employ in the future. She tried to discretely slide off Nikolai's lap, but if she was annoyed, he was irate again. His grip on her thighs tightened and locked her in place, though she wasn't sure if it was in anger or refusal to allow the moment to be over. "To what do we owe this interruption?" he demanded coldly.

But the man in doorway didn't cower the way that maid had previously. He seemed impossibly large, certainly taller and stronger than Nikolai, and it was clear that he was not going to be intimidated by someone just because they ranked higher in status than him. "Grand Duke Nikolai?" the man asked, almost sounding bored.

She felt Nikolai's body tense. "I sincerely hope you have a better reason for this inconvenience than want of a simple introduction," Nikolai answered, the threat evident in his voice.

Still, the larger man didn't back down. If anything, he looked amused. "Charmed," he quipped, "I'm Jonathan, actually the head of the crown prince's security. I wouldn't be here, except your _wife_ " Jonathan's eyes briefly flitted to Sara before returning to the duke "was quite concerned when she couldn't find you."

Sara's stomach sank as Nikolai released her. "I'll be there shortly," he informed Jonathan curtly. The latter nodded and closed the door, although Sara had a feeling he was likely lingering close by to ensure Nikolai followed through.

As soon as the door closed, Sara stood and crossed to a mirror, smoothing her hair, righting her mused dress, and refusing to look in Nikolai's direction. "I'm sorry," he offered from where he stood near the couch.

"Your wife needs you," was all Sara could respond, a chronic, dull ache erupting in her chest. It was how she felt every time Regan dragged Nikolai away, which was fairly regularly even though the two didn't necessarily get along.

"Sara…"

She clenched her hands into fists so tightly that her nails uncomfortably stabbed her palms. "I don't understand what we do this for," she admitted, "I don't know why you needed Regan, and I don't know how you and I are supposed to move forward."

He closed the space between them, and she had a feeling it was part of his strategy to get her to forgive him, because she always felt at the mercy of her emotions when they were close. "Do you trust me?" he asked softly as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed the side of her neck, and her skin felt seared by heat at the contact.

"Yes," she admitted, although she couldn't explain why. She was confused and disheartened by Nikolai's behavior the last year, but there was no doubt that she trusted him implicitly.

"That's all I ask," he smiled. "Please just trust me when I say that I love you, and I'm doing all of this for us."

If she was dancing with the devil, she would have to suffer the consequences, because there was no outcome for them that ended with her escaping his spell. "Alright," she nodded, forcing a smile. "Will I see you at the ball tonight?"

He assured her that she would before he gave her one last kiss and swept from the room. And as always, she felt his absence ardently, the dull ache simmering.

* * *

She didn't see him at the ball, but she hadn't entirely expected to.

First, it was a busy night. She'd spoken to so many people, and although she'd felt his gaze on her at several different points in the evening, she knew that he'd been engaged too. Nikolai flouted a lot of the expectations of a grand duke, but even he knew that foreign allies were necessary.

Second, it was complicated. No matter where she went, it seemed that her reputation proceeded her. It didn't matter that she had been in his life before Regan, didn't matter that she had thought she'd be his wife one day. No, all they saw was a homewrecker, a cruel foreigner who kept him from the woman he was lawfully wedded to. Nikolai couldn't just spent time with her at social events where her presence alone was considered disrespectful. He'd pushed his luck just by bringing her; showing her any favor would have been too much to forgive.

Not that it had been an altogether terrible time. In fact, Sara had managed to enjoy herself more than she'd thought possible. She'd had the luck of meeting Neema, who would one day be empress of Sahara, which was Sara's home country, and that alone would have made the trip worth all of the trouble. Neema was incredibly kind and gracious, but it had also felt like a link back to home that Sara hadn't had in a long time.

But she'd also surprisingly found allies in Prince Oliver's Selected. While some of the ladies looked at her just as scornfully as the other nobles and visitors, Lady Maelys and Lady Margaery had been exceptionally kind. She'd spoken with them both for much of the night and found that they were incredibly intelligent, both equipped in their own ways to be Oliver's queen, but also very different: Margaery was the consummate lady, refined and proper, while Mae was a little fierier, with strong opinions that she expressed easily.

She also found another shocking new friend at the Harvest Festival. When the day had started with a special delivery from Regan—a ridiculously tight and short dress and thigh high boots—as the grand duchess proclaimed that she might as well look the part of mistress, she'd been discouraged. She'd also anticipated spending much of the day alone. While Margaery and Mae tried to dutifully stick by her side once more, she'd waved them off, ordering them to have fun. They promised to check in with her but had complied.

So she'd sat alone in her ridiculous outfit for some time until Oliver himself had joined her. And he was the biggest surprise that she'd encountered in some time.

The most defining characteristic that she'd picked up on was how caring he was. Not just about his Selected—all twenty-one of them—but even of her, a complete stranger and an obvious ally to someone that he didn't particularly like or see eye to eye with.

They'd only spoken briefly, but Oliver certainly knew how to make an impact. As if she hadn't already been impressed by his behavior at the Harvest Festival, when she returned to her room that evening, she was surprised to see a vase of white lilies awaiting her. She'd been even more surprised to see Regan holding the card to the flowers.

"You certainly know how to climb the social ladder, no matter what country you're in," Regan noted.

While Sara wanted to demand what the duchess was doing in her room, she hoped that if she ignored Regan, she'd say her piece and leave.

There was rarely a simple solution to Regan though. "Tell me, how do you think Nikolai would react if he knew you were eyeing a new prince?" smirked the tall brunette.

Sara rolled her eyes. "Regan, Nikolai knows me better than that," she countered weakly.

"Oh, I don't think he really cares what anyone's intentions are where the Schreaves are concerned," retorted Regan. "They're the enemy, and if you're with them…" Regan gave a teasing shrug.

Sara snatched the letter from the Nikolai's wife's hand and looked down at it. It was nothing incriminating, as she'd known it would be. It was a simple note from Oliver thanking her for the advice she'd given him on the Selection and reiterating that she was always welcome in Illéa. But Regan was right. It wasn't something that Nikolai would like to see.

"What do you want, Regan?" she sighed tiredly.

The duchess' dark eyes flashed. "Leave Oliver alone."

It was so simple and such an unnecessary request that Sara laughed. "What do you even care?" she asked. "From what I've heard, you left him. You're married now."

"Yes, I am," agreed Regan, "and you should remember who I'm married to, and how much power I have to hurt you."

It was Sara's turn for her temper to peak. "You can make me wear ridiculous dresses and call me any name you want, but don't threaten me," she declared haughtily. "My place in court is secure, no matter what you think. Between Nikolai and the tsar, I'm untouchable, even for you."

Regan's eyes narrowed, and after a moment of consideration, she struck out, her hand swiftly knocking the vase of flowers to the ground. The vase shattered, sending water and flowers all over the floor. Regan's smile was almost imperceptible. "Oops."

Surprisingly, Regan's outburst tempered Sara's anger, and she found that she was back to feeling sorry for Nikolai's wife. It was clear that Oliver was developing feelings for his Selected. One day soon, Oliver would marry someone, and Regan would have to deal with the fallout then. Sara knew it hurt enough to watch Nikolai be with Regan, who he had no romantic feelings for; she couldn't imagine how hard it would be to watch someone you love love someone else.

"Is that all?" she asked as she stared at the flowers. She couldn't face Regan, who would see the pity in her eyes.

After a tense moment, Regan sniffed, "For now." She stalked from the room a moment later, though not without stepping close enough to bump Sara with her shoulder.

As she cleaned up the spilled flowers—having insisted to her maid that she would do it herself—Sara's thoughts were swirling. Although she was glad for Oliver's newfound friendship, Regan was right. It was complicated for her to be friends with someone that Nikolai hated so much.

But after much contemplation, she decided that she didn't care. By the time she had swept the last dustpan full of glass into the garbage, she'd decided that Nikolai and Regan wouldn't dictate every area of her life. She'd sacrificed things for Nikolai: her reputation, her dreams of being married and having children, her agency in most of her life decisions. And she put up with _enough_ from Regan. If they had opinions about the friendships she made, Sara decided that they could politely keep those opinions to themselves. And in support of her new outlook, she grabbed a piece of stationary from one of her suitcases and scribbled a thank you note to Oliver for the flowers.

After she sent it off with a maid, she felt pleased with herself. Whether she was stirring the pot, she wasn't sure; but it felt like she'd taken back control over her own life, and there were few things as satisfying as that.


	4. Chapter 4: Best Friends?

**Author's Note** : This is part of my week of Christmas (there MAY be a chapter coming tonight still :D) and a bit of a different take on the oneshots than I typically do. These are two of my favorite characters with a very interesting relationship, so I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

A small hand tugged Kaitlyn through the crowd. Between the walking boot on her foot and the ballgown that she was wearing, she struggled to keep up, but she tried her best, unwilling to deter the little princess.

"Come on, Lady Kaitlyn, I want to introduce you to mother!" Princess Amelie declared. It was easier for the child to weave between the large adults, and Kaitlyn had to mutter quick apologies several times as she bumped into people in her pursuit.

"Mother! Father!"

Kaitlyn's stomach gave an unsettled flop as Prince Kaden and Princess Josie turned in their direction. Amelie rushed to her parents, and Kaden bent down so that he was eye-level with his daughter. "What is it, Amie?" he asked.

"I need to introduce you to my best friend," she declared. Kaden and Josie both turned to Kaitlyn, and she tried to exhale discreetly under their gazes. "This is Lady Kaitlyn. She's Ollie's girlfriend!"

The prince and princess both looked amused at their daughter's blunt explanation. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Kaitlyn," Josie smiled.

Kaitlyn struggled to sweep her leg back in its large boot to execute a proper curtsey. "The pleasure is all mine, Your Highnesses."

"Lady Kaitlyn gave me cake!" Amelie explained excitedly.

Kaden laughed. "Amie, how is Lady Katelyn supposed to spend any time with Oliver if she's with you the whole night?"

Amelie frowned. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."

"Why don't you go say hello to Auntie Eady?" Josie suggested. "She's been looking for you all night!"

As Amelie scampered towards the queen, Josie and Kaden turned back towards Kaitlyn. "Thank you," smiled Josie, "She loves being included with the big kids."

"Of course," smiled Kaitlyn, "She's very sweet."

"You're the nursing student, right?" Kaden asked. "I've heard a lot about you."

Kaitlyn flushed even more deeply, although she hadn't thought such a thing possible. "Good things I hope," she swallowed.

"Only the best," confirmed Kaden with a warm smile. He had the same charming smile as Oliver, which Kaitlyn found amusing since she'd always assumed it was something he got from Kile's side of the family. She'd certainly never seen the expression on Eadlyn's face.

"Enjoy your evening, Lady Kaitlyn," Josie smiled kindly as she took her husband's hand. "I look forward to seeing you again."

When the two royals glided towards their daughter and the queen, Kaitlyn wiped her clammy hands on the sides of her skirt. Eadlyn terrified her, but the Schreave brothers had all seemed a lot more welcoming thus far. Tia Marcela had introduced them all to Osten earlier in the day, and he'd been friendly, a constant jokester.

She was about to flag down a waiter for a snack and maybe a glass of champagne since she'd avoided it while on Amelie duty when a voice stopped her. "Kaitlyn?"

"Alaric." She'd known it was him before she turned around, and the confirmation made her smile. "What are you doing here?" she asked. She had the urge to hug him, but considering she'd only met him once before it didn't seem quite proper so she held back.

"Oliver invited me," he explained. His gaze washed over her, as though he was looking for something. "How's your foot?"

"Oh," she laughed. She pulled the edge of her skirt up and stuck the bulky black boot out. "On the mend."

"Wow," he noted, "That looks intense."

"It hardly hurts anymore," she shrugged. "I _had_ a scooter to help me get around, but you get caught trying to take it down the stairs one time, and it's the end of the world."

Alaric laughed, and the expression made his eyes light up in a way that Kaitlyn hadn't seen yet. She stared into the blue pools, noticing the different flecks of grey and green in them. Alaric's smile slowly faded as they two lapsed into an easy silence until Kaitlyn realized that she was staring. "Sorry!" she laughed at herself, "I'm… easily distracted."

"That's fine," countered Alaric with a laugh. "Uh, hey, would you want to maybe… dance or something?"

"Uh…" Kaitlyn glanced down at her foot. "I'm on the mend, but still not the picture of grace."

"Oh. Oh, gosh, yeah. Sorry, I'm an idiot. We were just talking about it, but I completely forgot," Alaric admitted.

"That's okay," she countered. She glanced around. "Want to grab a snack instead?"

He quickly agreed and offered his arm to her. Kaitlyn flagged down a waiter, and Alaric loaded a plate up for them before they settled themselves at an empty table. However, they were so engaged in their conversation that by the time Margaery came to whisk Alaric away on Oliver's orders, neither had eaten a bite.

* * *

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she stomped away from the dessert table. Part of her was tempted to look behind her to see if Oliver was still gaping stupidly at her, but she refused to turn around. If he wanted to talk, he was going to have to come to her. She'd waited too long for him to come around after their ill-fated adventure to Likely.

"Woah." A hand caught her wrist, and she stumbled for a second at the sudden interruption of her retreat. Before she could manage to be annoyed, she realized who the voice belonged to, and a begrudging smile tugged at her face. "Where's the fire?" Alaric asked with a chuckle.

"No fire," she countered, "Just… annoying royals."

"Something tells me you're not talking about Tristan," Alaric surmised.

"You win," chirped Kaitlyn.

Alaric hesitated for a second before he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

And that was how they ended up sitting on a bale of hay behind the stables as she ranted to him about how stupid Oliver had been lately. Alaric listened patiently, letting her ramble for as long as she felt necessary without yawning or glancing at the clock above her head or even looking away from her. "It's just infuriating," she concluded, "I'm the one clomping around in a giant, ugly boot, and he's acting like the wounded damsel in distress."

Alaric laughed at her analogy. "The boot's not super ugly," he countered, "I think you look great."

She perked up, fluffing the material of her powder blue skirt. "Thank you," she beamed, "You're the first one to notice much other than the shoe."

"I think it makes you look cool," challenged Alaric. "Just remember how you got it. You tackled one of Moolsey's cronies and set your own dislocated foot. You're like Batman or something."

Kaitlyn giggled. "That's the first time I've ever been compared to Bruce Wayne," she noted. "Does that make you my Alfred? You did bandage me up post-injury."

"As long as I get to be on your side, I'll be anyone," offered Alaric, his smile causing the corners of his light blue eyes to crinkle.

Kaitlyn threw her arms around his neck, unintentionally musing Alaric's wavy, light brown hair. "That makes me the luckiest Batman ever then," she declared. Tentatively, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, only applying the lightest touch.

"Kaitlyn?"

Alaric's arm fell away, although Kaitlyn retained the light drape around his neck as she turned in the direction of the new arrival. "Oh, hey, Mae," she smiled.

Mae looked hesitant as she glanced between the pair. "We were going to make our announcement about the charities soon," she explained.

Kaitlyn made a face at Alaric. "Duty calls. See you after the race?"

"Of course," he smiled, "Knock 'em dead."

As she linked arms with Mae and started to clomp her way towards the clubhouse, she noticed that her friend was quieter than usual. "What?" Kaitlyn asked with a chuckle.

"You and Alaric seem friendly," Mae observed.

"Yes," nodded Kaitlyn, " _Friend_ -ly. Don't worry, Mae. I'm not going to pull an Isolde and leave you alone in this crazy competition."

"I'm less worried for me and more worried about you," Mae frowned. "You and Alaric have been spending a lot of time together lately. What if—"

"There is absolute no reason to worry," countered Kaitlyn. "Alaric and I are just friends. And besides…" She heaved a sigh. "I might not be here much longer anyway."

The concern on Mae's face morphed into sadness. "He's still being weird about everything that happened in Likely?"

Kaitlyn nodded. "I told him today that if he couldn't get past it to just let me leave, because it sucks."

"I know," Mae frowned, putting an arm around her friend's shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," countered Kaitlyn, putting on a brave smile. "It'll be fine. Come on, let's go raise some money for charity."

* * *

When Isolde had first told them about Oliver's surprise birthday, Kaitlyn had been immediately excited. She and Oliver were finally back in a better place, and the theme was so perfect for him that she couldn't wait. When they walked into the club, the girls all shared in a similar awe when they saw the amazing party that Tristan and Isolde had organized. "Look," Mae noted, her green eyes sparkling, made even more brighter by her emerald dress. "There's Alaric."

Kaitlyn spun around, smiling widely when she saw her friend lounging at the end of the bar. She waved at him, but he didn't return the gesture. Instead, Alaric grinned and beckoned the bartender over. A moment later, two drinks were being placed before Kaitlyn and Mae. "What are these?" she asked, confused that Alaric hadn't instantly joined them as he normally did.

"From the gentleman at the end of the bar," the bartender explained.

Kaitlyn accepted her drink but sent a quizzical look at Alaric. "Should I let him know that it's alright to join you, ladies?" the bartender asked.

"Uh… yes?" Kaitlyn shrugged, thinking it would have been obvious. Mae looked more amused than perplexed, and once the bartender had relayed his unnecessary message, Alaric joined them. "What the heck was that about?" demanded Kaitlyn.

Before Alaric could explain, Mae pointed to a sign behind the bar that read, "Prohibited Etiquette." There was a list of rules, and number five proclaimed, "No bothering other guests. Gentlemen: No brazen come-ons outside of your immediate party. If you must, ask the bartender to send her a drink on your tab and she will let the bartender know if it's OK for you to join her."

Kaitlyn smirked and elbowed Alaric in the ribs. "Is this your way of un-brazenly coming on to me, Al?"

He choked on his drink. "No, I didn't—uh, I mean, I just thought—"

Mae laughed. "Stop teasing him, Kaitlyn," she ordered. She finished her drink and waved the bartender over. "Come on, Alaric, Kaitlyn and I are going to teach you how to do shots."

"What makes you think that I know how to do shots?" Kaitlyn asked, blinking in confusion.

Mae examined the pair before she amended her statement, "Alright, I'm going to teach you _both_ how to do shots."

While Mae had a brief discussion about the bartender, Kaitlyn hung back with Alaric, an arm looped through his as usual. "This sounds scary," she remarked.

"I'm terrified," he agreed.

"We could sneak away," Kaitlyn suggested.

Alaric cracked a smile. "Only if I get to go first," he countered, "I'm not getting caught trying to escape by Maelys."

"At the same time," she proposed, "On the count of three. Ready?"

"One."

"Two."

"Here!" Mae spun around, a tiny glass in each of her hands.

"Damn it," cursed Kaitlyn.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd let me run away first," Alaric bemoaned. Kaitlyn stuck her tongue out at him.

"Okay," Mae began, "So you just throw the shot into your mouth and swallow it super-fast. Then, before you taste anything, take a sip of your regular drink."

Alaric frowned. "But our regular drinks have alcohol in them."

" _Mixed_ alcohol," amended Mae, "You gotta fight fire with fire, Alaric."

Another three count, and the three clinked their tiny little glasses together before they tried to follow Mae's instructions as exactly as possible. Kaitlyn didn't swallow her shot fast enough and ended up having to chug the rest of her drink to get the burn out of her mouth. "What was that?" she demanded.

"Well, you're obviously not a gin girl," Mae determined. "Let's try a mixed shot this time."

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Kaitlyn groaned, turning to Alaric. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he encouragingly rubbed her back.

This time, Mae gave them a mixed shot and told them that they didn't have to chase it with anything. It looked much nicer than the previous gin, as it had whipped cream and a little cherry on top. They clinked their glasses again and quickly swallowed.

It was delicious, but by the time she set the glass back on the bar, Kaitlyn felt a little more jubilant from the earlier drinks. After Mae spied Presley across the room and excused herself to catch up with their friend, Kaitlyn took a seat at the bar to give her feet a break, Alaric standing close by. "Hi," she smiled up at him happily.

"Hi," he beamed down at her. He opened his mouth, as if to say something else when the lights in the club flashed. It was the agreed upon sign that Oliver was almost there. "Oliver," Alaric remarked glancing around.

"Yeah. Oliver." Kaitlyn slid off her stool. "I should go find the girls."

"Yeah," nodded Alaric. "You should."

"I'll see you later?" she asked, unknowingly holding her breath until he promised her that she would.

* * *

"Are you ready for this?" Kaitlyn demanded excitedly. "I've been waiting for this documentary for months. I remember when I saw for the first preview for it, oh my god, I'm so excited."

Alaric laughed as he settled on the couch beside her. He sat close, as usual, and Kaitlyn excitedly curled up by his side. She'd stopped by the kitchen to grab a bowl of popcorn and some mint tea—Alaric's favorite—and she offered a mug to him.

"I don't know if I'm ready," Alaric admitted with a chuckle. "Did I ever mention that I'm fairly squeamish? Marid tried to teach me how to hunt once, and I might've thrown up when I saw the rabbit he shot through the eye."

Kaitlyn's eyebrows arched. "Just when I think he can't get worse," she shuddered. "But this isn't like hunting. It's medicine!"

"Medieval medicine," specified Alaric. "That's probably pretty similar to hunting."

"Oh, stop," she countered, "You said you were excited to watch it with me!"

For a moment, there was a flash of something on Alaric's face that Kaitlyn didn't quite recognize. But then the curious expression disappeared, and he sighed as he dropped an arm around her shoulders. "I am," he assured her. "Medieval medicine. Yaaay." He accepted the mint tea from her and took a steadying breath.

It didn't occur to Kaitlyn until Alaric was cringing and watching the show through one eye that he had been lying about his excitement. Although she was fascinated, she glanced back at him periodically to make sure he wasn't about to projectile vomit or anything and gave him encouraging pats on the knee every so often.

When the show was over—too quickly in Kaitlyn's humble opinion—she spun towards him and threw a handful of popcorn at him. "Why'd you lie to me?" she demanded.

"Wha-what?" stammered Alaric.

She rolled her eyes. "Please, Al. It's pretty obvious that you were not super into medieval medicine."

"If you can even call most of that _medicine_ ," shuddered Alaric. "God, with half of those procedures, no wonder people only lived until like thirty-five."

"You didn't have to watch it," she pointed out.

"I know," agreed Alaric. "I wanted to." Kaitlyn turned her disbelieving expression on him, politely showing him that he wasn't fooling her at all. "I wanted to watch it with you," he corrected himself.

"Why?" she laughed. For some reason, his assertion had made her heart jump a little, though she didn't understand why.

"Because I got to do it with you," he shrugged. "You're… my best friend, Kaitlyn."

His words caused her face to melt into an enormous smile, the rare kinds that happened unconsciously and as the result of nothing more than the purest types of happiness. "You're my best friend too," she realized, reaching forward to wrap her arms tightly around him. She squeezed until Alaric laughed, a sound that brought out her own happy giggles as well.


End file.
